


Beyond the Goblin City

by okapi



Category: Labyrinth (1986), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Labyrinth Fusion, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dream Sex, Dreams, F/F, Fem!John as Sarah, Fem!Sherlock as the Goblin King/Queen, Heat-like Sex, Omega John, Sherlock Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4242285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fusion of BBC Sherlock with the 1986 film "Labyrinth."</p><p>After John's childhood wish is repeated in anger, Harry is kidnapped by goblins. The Goblin Queen threatens to turn Harry into a goblin if John does not reach the centre of her labyrinth in thirteen hours. As John draws closer to the castle, she also draws closer to its Queen and completing the quest may only be the beginning of their story.</p><p>The rating is for Chapter 4 alone. The rest of the story is a Teen rating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry is a mean drunk and a childhood wish is repeated and granted

“A little peace and quiet tonight, please,” prayed John as she turned the key.

_CRASH!_

“Johnnie!”

“What’s going on, Harry?” John asked in a dead voice.

“Your army pal Murray dropped by. Left you a little welcome home gift.” Harry gestured to the table where a bottle of whiskey—a very nice bottle of whiskey, John noted—sat. Half-empty.

“Thought you wouldn’t mind if I toasted to your homecoming! Cheers!” Harry raised her glass; the amber liquid sloshed down her hand. “Let me, uh, refresh this. Pour yourself one.”

“No thanks.” Leaning heavily on her cane, John moved to the table, positioning herself between her sister and the bottle. “What’s all this?” she asked, nodding behind Harry.

Dust-covered boxes formed an obstacle course down the middle of the room. They were cut open, and their contents—curled photographs, yellowing papers, worn plush animals—spilled onto the floor.

“Just a walk down amnesia lane, as you like to say. We haven’t spent this much time together since we were kids. Got me thinking. _Fuck!_ ” Harry’s leg hit the side of a box; she crumpled.

John’s cane clattered to the floor. She limped towards her sister, and, wincing, hoisted her bodily onto the sofa.

“I’ve got it!” barked Harry, shrugging John off. She sat up and plucked a photograph from the box. Studying it, she crooned, “You were so-o-o special. Did you know, back then, how special you were, Johnnie?” Harry flashed a picture at her of two towheaded girls, one smiling and one bawling for the camera.

“Leave off, Harry. Just for tonight.”

Harry squinted at the image. “I wasn’t special. Nope. Just plain ol’ Harry. But you were special. And then you became _more_ special. Doctor. Soldier.”

“Well I’m not either anymore, am I?” snapped John. “War took care of that.” She pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers and rubbed her eyes.

“You’re still an Omega. One percent of the population. That’s special.”

“I haven’t been an Omega for decades, Harry.”

Recent years had taught John that the only hormone cocktail stronger than one cooked up by a gang of rogue medical students was one issued by an army.

“Does it sting, Johnnie? Special _you_ having to ask plain ol’ _me_ for help?”

“I’m grateful—“

“Hey, remember this bloke?” Harry dropped the photograph. She lurched forward and reached into a box. Then she fell back onto the sofa, holding up a figurine. “The Goblin King!”

Queen, corrected John silently.

It was a thin, spindly figure dressed in a dark, glittery magician’s suit with tall boots and high-collared cape. The eyes were heavily lined, and the eyelids were painted a silver grey up to two dark swathes of eyebrows. The most singular feature, however, was a fountain of hair that sprung from the top of the head and fell about a gaunt face in a dark, straight curtain.

“Oh, I remember him! You loved him! Let’s see, there was a castle and a Goblin City and a labyrinth…”

As Harry spoke, John braced her arm against the sofa and lowered herself awkwardly until she could retrieve her cane from where it had rolled beneath Harry’s legs. She grunted and pushed herself to standing.

“You want to know a secret?” Harry’s blood-shot eyes shined. “I heard you one time. You wished for the goblins to take me away. Ha! Well, it didn’t work, did it, Johnnie? I’m still here! Plain ol’ Harry is still here! And now _you_ need _me_. Now, _I_ get to play Lady Bountiful.” She smiled and stroked the figure’s hair. “ _I’m_ the special one! And you’re the broken—“

John gripped the handle of her cane tighter. “Listen, maybe you should call it a night—“

“I don’t take orders from you, Captain!” Harry stood up abruptly and wobbled. John reached for her. “Oh, piss off! I don’t need a cripple’s hand, thank you very much.”

Harry careened into a box and dropped the figurine.

_CRACK!_

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Harry swore as she righted herself and stumbled to the bedroom.

_SLAM!_

John hobbled forward and sank to the floor. She held the two pieces of the figurine gently and glared at the bedroom door. “I wish the goblins _would_ come and take you away,” she hissed. Then she fit the broken halves together and whispered tenderly, “Don’t worry, my Queen. I’ll mend you. I’ll make you right as rain.” John sighed and looked around her. “In the morning, I promise.”

* * *

John dreamt.

But tonight was not her usual nightmare of desert sun and scorpion tails and hails of gunfire and screaming. Always the screaming.

No, tonight, she dreamt of goblins, huddled together in a solid wall of crinkly grey faces. Pointy noses, beady eyes, craggy teeth, straw-like hair. They were mumbling. Squabbling with each other. Looking at her. Asking her, no, _urging_ her, to say something.

‘I wish the goblins would come and take you away right now.’

* * *

_CRASH!_

John sat up and turned her head toward the bedroom.

Harry!

She grabbed her cane.

“Harry?” No Harry in the loo.

“Harry?! Are you alright?”

John turned the doorknob quietly.

No Harry in the bed. No Harry on the floor.

The window was open.

She’d fallen out! No, she couldn’t fit.

John poked her head out and looked down.

No Harry in the alley.

She couldn’t have gone out the front door; John would’ve heard her.

As she straightened, John felt the uneasy sensation of being watched from behind. She whipped her around. The room stilled. She turned back.

_SMACK!_

Something hit John square in the face. Something white that fluttered. John covered her head with her arms.

When the commotion ceased, John lowered her arms and stared at the figure that towered over her.

There was no mistaking her:  same lean, wiry physique; same dark, dramatic costume; same Kabuki-esque face; same pyrotechnic explosion of dark hair crowning the head.

“You’re her, aren’t you? You’re the Goblin Queen.”

The Queen smiled. “It’s been a long time, John.”

“Where’s Harry?”

“You know very well where she is.”

“Please bring her back. Please.”

“John, forget about your sister.”

“I can’t. She’s all I have.”

“You asked me to take her. You _wished_ for it.”

“But I didn’t mean it.”

“Oh, you didn’t? Well, what’s said is said. Regardless, I brought you a gift.” A glass sphere appeared in black gloved-fingertips. “It’s a crystal. Nothing more.” The Queen rolled it in her hand deftly. Then she turned her hand over, and the ball continued to roll, suspended upside down. “But if you turn it this way, it’ll grant you your deepest dreams.” The Queen juggled it between her hands. “But this is no ordinary gift for an ordinary girl. Or woman, that is. This is for someone special. Forget about your sister, and you can have it.”

“No thanks,” said John. “Not that I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m not special. I just want my sister back.”

“John, John, you are a _stubborn_ little soldier.” The Queen held the crystal aloft in her hand and suddenly, it transformed into an azure-coloured snake coiled around her fingers. “But, you’re no match for me.” The Queen threw the viper at John’s neck. John shouted and grabbed at it with two hands. Instantly, the snake became a woolly blue scarf. There were shadows behind John, cackling. John dropped the scarf on the floor; it seemed to dissolve into thin air.

John turned around. The room quieted. “I want my sister back,” she insisted.

The Queen pointed out the window. “She’s there, in my castle Do you still want to look for her?”

The alley had disappeared, and in its place was a bronze landscape. There was a winding labyrinth made of terracotta bricks, and in the centre of the maze loomed a tall, many-spired fortress.

“Is that the castle beyond the Goblin City?” Lines from a childhood story came rushing back to John:

 

> Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered,
> 
> I have fought my way to the castle beyond the Goblin City
> 
> To take back the child that you have stolen.
> 
> For my will is as strong as yours. And my kingdom is as great!

The Queen smiled as if listening to John recite it aloud. “None of us are children, John. And I did not _steal_ your sister, I granted your wish. Forget her, John. Admit defeat. After all, if you’re nothing special, how can you save her? How can you rescue her?”

“I have to try,” said John, rolling her shoulders back and jutting her chin out. Soldier ready for the fray.

“What a pity!” sighed the Queen dramatically, but her mercurial grey eyes were alit with glee.

* * *

Suddenly, they were no longer in the bedroom; they were high on a desert hill overlooking the labyrinth.

“It doesn’t look that far,” muttered John.

“It’s further than you think, and time is short.” The Queen nodded to a clock that hung from a barren tree branch behind them; its hands were poised at the top of the face, at ‘13.’

“You have thirteen hours to reach the castle or your sister becomes one of us, a goblin. Forever.”

There was a flash of lightning and a puff of smoke. The Queen vanished, and a snowy owl was perched on the branch where the clock hung. It hooted and then it flapped its wings and leapt into the sky. John watched until it became a tiny speck and then disappeared into the horizon.

“Well, nothing for it. Come on, feet! Wait a minute!” John looked down; she was dressed in her old army fatigues. “Where’s my cane?” she asked, waving her arms.

The Queen’s voice echoed. “You don’t need a cane here, John.”

John took a couple of hesitant steps. No pain. No limp. She held out her arms. No tremor.

Grinning, she marched down the hill to the outer wall of the labyrinth.

“Hey!” she cried. “I’m liking this adventure already! Here I come, Harry!” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which names are forgotten, promises are made, riddles are solved, questions are answered, answers are answered and, above all, some things are not what they seem while others are _exactly_ what they seem.

“Uh, excuse me?” John approached an ancient-looking dwarf-goblin who, she realized too late, was urinating in a pond.

“Excuse me,” he said, adjusting his trousers. He turned. “Oh, it’s you,” he grumbled. He took up a spray can and pumped it at a tiny fluttering creature, who fell to the ground when hit with a puff. “Fifty-seven,” he counted as he kicked dirt over the sprite.

“I need to get through this labyrinth. Can you help me? Wait, what are you doing? Are you killing fairies? You’re horrible!” John bent to pick it up.

“No, I ain’t! I’m Greg! And those ain’t fairies. Those are Irenies—watch out they bite! Who are you?”

“John. Ouch!” John dropped the fairy. “It bit me!”

The dwarf-goblin rolled his eyes and resumed his attack. “Fifty-eight!” he cried as another fell.

“Where’s the door to this labyrinth, Gavin?”

“It’s Greg!”

“Oh, yeah, you just said that. I’m sorry. Why couldn’t I remember that?”

“Curse. The Goblin King put a curse on the entire land. For me impudence, says he. No one can remember my name.”

“That’s awful!” John bit her lip. “Um, so about the door?”

“What door?”

“The door to the labyrinth!”

“Ain’t no door!”

“If I’m to complete the labyrinth, I have to start somewhere. There’s got to be a door! It’s hopeless asking you anything!”

“Not if you ask the right question.”

John paused. “How do I get into the labyrinth?” she asked sweetly.

The dwarf-goblin returned her saccharine smile. “Now that’s more like it. You gets in right there.” He pointed. Behind John, the wall simply opened. “Are you really going in there?” he asked.

“I am afraid I have to. My sister is being held captive in the castle.”

John passed through the entrance and looked left and right. Both ways were identical: two narrow, brick-lined paths strewn with falling branches and dry leaves.

“Now, which way?” she asked herself. Then she turned to the dwarf-goblin. “Which would you choose?”

“I wouldn’t choose either. You’re not thinking this through, lassie. Even if you get to the castle, you’ll never get out again!” He cackled.

“Well, if that’s all the help you’re going to be, you can just leave. Thanks for nothing, Gustavo!”

“It’s Greg! And don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

* * *

John walked. And walked. And walked. “There are no turns or corners or anything! How can this be a labyrinth?” She growled and kicked the wall.

“Hey, watch it!”

John stared. The furry brown lichen that dotted the wall had eyes. Lots of eyes. And a mouth, apparently.

“Try picking on someone your own size! Like massive!” it squealed.

“Sorry,” said John, stepping closer. “Do you know how to solve this labyrinth?”

“No, we just sit here. On the wall.”

“Oh,” John said, deflated. “There don’t seem to be any openings anywhere—it just goes on and on!”

“You’re not looking right. There’s an openings everywhere, you just ain’t seeing them.”

“Where are they?”

“There’s one right there!” All the eyes focused on the wall behind John.

“That’s just a wall,” she protested.

“Things here ain’t always what they seem. Go on, give it a try.”

John stood with hands up and leaned toward the wall behind her. She felt air. She stepped forward, right through the brick. “Hey!” She turned. “You’re right! Thank you so much! You were very he—“

“NO-O-O!” cried the lichen.

“What?”

“Don’t say we was… _what-you-were going-to-say_!”

“Why not? You don’t like to be shown appreciation? I’m grateful. What you told me was very he—“

“STOP! The Goblin King’s put a curse on us. Anytime anyone speaks kindly of us, we’re turned into something baser, more common! We don’t wants to be algae!”

“That’s horrid! Truly horrid. Well, can I at least know your name?”

“Anderson.”

“Well, Anderson. I’m John. And if there’s something I can do to change your situation in the course of my quest, I’ll do it! That’s a promise.”

The eyes wept.

“Don’t cry, please. And let me say, from the bottom of my heart, Anderson, you are not helpful at all. You are, in fact, an idiot!” John grinned and then turned to the right.

“No! Don’t go that way! Never go that way!”

John stopped and did an about-face and headed left. “Oh, okay. Bye!”

When John was out of earshot, the lichen grumbled, “Serves her right. Calling us an idiot! Harrumph!”

* * *

 

John wandered through the labyrinth. She scratched arrows onto the bricks with a small stone until she realized someone, or something, was turning her marks around once she had passed.

“Not fair!” John cried, when she double-backed and noted the trickery.

“Fair?” echoed the Queen’s voice. “You want fair? Alright. How about a match of wits? Here’s a bit of a puzzle.”

Two doorways appeared. They were blocked by two shields, one red, one blue, with grotesque heads poking out of the top and bottom.

“This was a dead end!” cried John.

“No, that’s the dead end behind you!” called one of the heads. All four laughed.

John looked back and frowned at the brick wall where there had just been a path. “It keeps changing. What am I supposed to do?” she asked them.

One head said, “The only way out of here is to try one of these doors. One of them leads to the castle at the centre of the labyrinth. And the other one leads to…”

“Ba-bu-bu-bum!” interjected a second head.

“…certain death!” finished a third.

“Oooh!” they all hooted.

“Which one is which?” asked John, looking from one door to the other.

“We can’t tell you,” said one head at the bottom of the shield. “Because we don’t know,” said its companion. “But they do.” They both looked up at the heads on the top of the shields.

The one on the left said, “You can only ask one of us. And one of always tells the truth. And the other one always lies.”

“Ah,” said John. “A riddle. I like these. So, let me see.” She paused. “Answer yes or no,” she moved to the left door, “would he,” she pointed to the head on the right, “tell me that this door,” she pointed to the left door, “leads to the castle?”

“Umm…yes!”

“Ha! Then it’s the other door that leads to the castle!”

“How do you know? He could be telling the truth!”

“But then you wouldn’t be. So if you told me that he said yes, then I know you would be lying. And if he’s the liar, then you’re the one telling the truth, and the result would be the same! Ha!” John pushed open the right door and crossed the threshold. “Would you look at that?! A broken toy solider outsmarted a Gobli—arrghh!”

John fell straight down a deep, dark hole. She hit the bottom with a _thud_.

“You’re just sore because I solved your riddle,” said John to the darkness. She heard a rustling noise. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me. Greg.” A match was struck, and the space was illuminated. “I knew you were trouble as soon as I met you.” John looked around; the cave had low ceilings and dirt floors. The dwarf-goblin lit a candle with the match. “Ah, you’re looking now, ain’t ya? I guess you can tell there ain’t no doors. Just the hole. This here’s an oubliette.”

“Really?” said John. “Wow! Neat! I mean, it would be neat if I weren’t probably going to die here.”

The dwarf-goblin eyed John suspiciously. “You don’t know what an oubliette is!”

John shrugged. “A hole where you put people to forget about them, I guess? Oublier, French for ‘to forget.’ Not that difficult to figure out.” Hollow laughter erupted around them. Greg froze with eyes wide. John continued, “’Three Continents,’ mate,” she slapped Greg on the back good-naturedly, “France, Quebec, even Martinique. You pick up a word or two.”

The laughter stopped.

The dwarf-goblin regained his composure and said, “What we have to do now is get out of here. And I know a shortcut out of the whole labyrinth.”

“I can’t turn back now. I’ve come too far.”

“Turn back, John. It get worse from here on in.” He patted her shoulder gently.

“Why do you care?”

“Nice girl, horrible oubliette.”

“So you _do_ have a conscience!”

“Shhh! It’s a secret.”

John smiled. “Why don’t you take me as far as you can? Then, I’m on my own. And if there’s a way I can get your name curse reversed, I’ll do it. Deal?” John extended her hand.

The dwarf-goblin tilted his head. “Okay,” he said, finally, and shook John’s hand. Then he moved to a corner of a cave. He brushed the dirt with his foot and revealed a trap door. He lifted the door and pressed it into the side of the cave. He opened it one way, and a mop fell out.

“Broom closet. I always get these mixed up.” He shoved the mop back in and closed the door. Then he opened it the opposite way. A passageway appeared.

“After you, Miss,” he said, ushering John through the door.

The tunnels didn’t look much different from the oubliette, except there was light to see by. Where the light was coming from John wasn’t quite sure, but it made plain the faces carved into the corners. They were equal parts solemn and menacing, like ancient figureheads guarding a cursed tomb or ceremonial masks abandoned by a long-forgotten civilization. As they made their way through the tunnels, the faces came alive and bellowed.

“Go back!”

“This is not the way!”

“Beware!”

“Don’t pay attention to them,” said the dwarf-goblin. “You get a lot of those in the labyrinth. Especially when you’re on the right track.”

One opened its mouth.

“Oh, forget it!” snapped the dwarf-goblin.

“Oh, please, it’s been so long!” pleaded the face.

“Oh, alright, but don’t expect a big reaction.”

“Oh, no, no, of course not.” It cleared its throat.

“ _For this path leads to certain destruction!_ ”

John laughed and clapped. “Well done,” she said.

“Thank you,” said the face. “I also know quite a few show-tunes if you’re interested—“

Just then, a crystal ball appeared from around the corner. Seemingly of its own volition, it rolled between the two of them and disappeared around another corner. John followed it and watched as it leapt into the begging cup of a hunched goblin wearing a Plague Doctor mask.

“Oh, no,” whispered the dwarf-goblin.

“What have we here?” said the beggar, standing to full height and throwing off its costume.

“Your Majesty, what a nice surprise!” The dwarf-goblin fell to one knee.

“Hello, Geoffery,” said the Queen.

“It’s Graham,” said John.

“It’s Greg!” said the dwarf-goblin, not looking up.

“George, look at me, can it be that you’re helping our little soldier?”

“H-h-helping her? In what sense?” He stood and retreated as the Queen advanced.

“In the sense that you’re leading her towards the castle.”

“No, no, I was taking her back to the beginning, your Majesty.”

“What?!” cried John.

“Gary,” said the Queen. “If I thought for one second that you were disobeying me, I’d be forced to suspend you headfirst in the Bog of Eternal Stench!”

The dwarf-goblin fell to his knees and grabbed the Queen’s leg. “No, your Majesty! Not the Eternal Stench!” he begged.

“Yes, Gus,” she cooed, kicking him; he yelped and rolled onto his side, rubbing his head.

The Queen turned to John. “And you, my soldier? You look angry and,” her eyes danced across John’s face, “puzzled. Anger, first.”

“You ordered him to lead me back to the beginning!” she said. “That’s not fair!”

“Not fair? You solved my riddle door quite easily. I had to think up a new obstacle—one perhaps more tailored to a tender heart than a quick wit. Consider it a compliment. You’re come much farther than I anticipated. You’re special.”

“Umm, no. I’m _not_ special…”

“…You say that so often. I wonder…”

“…but,” John interrupted the Queen’s musing, “your challenge, your rules, right?”

The Queen shrugged. “Sometimes the rules are wrong. So, that’s why you’re angry. Now tell me why you’re puzzled.”

“Everyone here calls you ‘King.”

The Queen spread her arms wide. “I am their sovereign. This is my realm. They are my minions.”

“No, I mean they call you ‘King,’ not ‘Queen.’”

”Ah, yes, well, they can be forgiven for that bit of confusion, can’t they? They aren’t astute creatures, and the wardrobe lends very little to the imagination.”

John’s eyes followed the sweep of the Queen’s hand.

To the bulge in the crotch of her breeches.

Right.

“It’s really not polite to stare, John.”

“Right.” John looked away. “So all these years, I’ve had it wrong.”

The Queen leaned closer. Her voice was a purr. “Or all these years, you’re the only one who has seen me for who, and what, I truly am.”

“So are you a queen or a king?” John pressed.

“What if I’m both? What if I’m neither?” the queen replied sharply. “I still have your sister in cage, and your time is running out. How are you enjoying my labyrinth so far?”

John let the question go and thought about the past few hours. “Well, to be honest, I mean, the riddle door was fun, and there was some interesting-looking moss, but other than that, it’s been brick wall, brick wall, brick wall, left turn, right turn, fall down a hole. So, all in all, I’d say it’s been a bit…boring.”

“Boring?!” The Queen’s eyes flashed. “I’ll show you boring!” She waved her hands and disappeared.

A horrible roar echoed through the tunnel. One end was blocked by a grey machine covered in spinning knives. It rolled ominously toward Greg and John, who both screamed and ran in the other direction.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John encounters a host of cursed creatures

“Push!”

“I am pushing!”

“Push harder!”

John thrust her body against the door. The machine with the spinning knives inched closer, and there was no escape for her and the dwarf-goblin, but to fashion their own exit.

_WHOOOM!_

The wall fell, and John fell with it, landing on the ground with a thud.

“Ah, just what we need,” said the dwarf-goblin, “a ladder.”

John groaned.

She climbed after the dwarf-goblin. At the top, he pushed a round lid off, and John found herself in a new section of the labyrinth. Gone were dark, dirt floors strewn with branches and leaves, and in their place were clean stone walkways and walls decorated with neatly-trimmed ivy. The castle loomed larger in the distance. The pair entered a courtyard with marble statues and a sundial in the centre.

A hunched figure with fluffy white hair and voluminous cloak was moving slowly around the space.

“Excuse me,” said John. “Can you help us?”

The figure stopped and turned. One eye was closed; the other barely cracked. “Oh, a young soldier.” The voice was garbled and soft. As John approached, she could see that it was an elderly woman gripping a coarse-haired broom. She wore a hat in the form of the peacock head’s. The peacock blinked and hooted at John.

“And who is this?” asked the peacock.

“My friend,” said John, laying a hand on the dwarf-goblin’s shoulder.

The old lady’s head drooped; her hands clutched the broom, sweeping the pristine stone in a mechanical motion.

“I need to get to the castle at the centre of the labyrinth. Do you know the way?” asked John, tilting her head to catch the old lady’s attention.

“Ah, what?”

The peacock squawked. “Martha! She says she wants to know the way to the castle!”

“No need to shout, Marie! Ah, my dear soldier,” said the old lady. “Sometimes the way forward is the way back.”

“Don’t listen to that crap, love,” squawked the peacock.

“Be quiet, Marie!”

“Why are you going to the castle, love?” asked the peacock.

“The Goblin King has kidnapped my sister. I am going to rescue her.”

“Oh goodness, me. Did you hear that, Martha?”

“Ah, what?”

“Do you know this area?” asked John.

“Do we know it?” The peacock huffed. “Listen, love, the very land beneath your feet, where this labyrinth and the castle now stand, used to be ours. I owned the eastern parcel and Martha, the western. Martha was attached to a very unsavoury character, and the Goblin King freed her from his spell, but in return, he exacted a high price. He took her land and made my existence so miserable as to not be worth living. We rebelled. Then he cursed us. Poor Martha’s curse is to ceaselessly clean on the very spot where she used to be proprietress, and I am forced to live upstairs, as it were, and be her hat.”

“Time. To. Dust,” mumbled the old lady. From the folds of her cloak, she produced a spray can and a rag and toddled to the wall. She sprayed the ivy and then rubbed the cloth in a slow circle. The peacock turned her head a full 180 degrees to address John and the dwarf-goblin.

“All that cleaning has addled her mind and aged her terribly, the poor thing, but she won’t listen to reason. Stop, Martha! You’re not his housekeeper!”

“Must. Dust. Wednesday. Lino.” Spray, rub, rub, spray, rub, rub. The old lady made her way down the wall.

“That’s awful,” said John. “Well, if there’s some way I can reverse your curses, I’ll do it. Any advice for getting to the castle?”

The old lady stopped her ministrations and turned to John. “Advice? I love giving advice. My Dear soldier, sometimes it seems you aren’t getting anywhere when in fact…” Her voice faded.

“You are,” finished the peacock.

The old lady just hummed; then she turned back to the wall and resumed her spraying and rubbing. John waited, but after a few moments, she heard a snore.

“Well, that’s your lot,” announced the peacock. “Good luck, my Dear. We’re counting on you.”

“Thank you.” John and the dwarf-goblin headed off down one of the paths.

“Thank you for what? That ol’ gal didn’t tell you nothin’,” he complained.

“Maybe. Or maybe it’ll come in handy, you never know,” said John. “Their story is awful. The more I hear about this Goblin King, the more I’m convinced she…or he, rather…is not a very nice character.”

“Uh, why did you call me that? Back there?” asked the dwarf-goblin.

“What?”

“Friend.”

“Because you are. No much of one, I’ll admit, but the only one I’ve got at the moment.”

The dwarf-goblin snorted. They turned a corner and heard a ferocious roar. Then he squeaked, “I’m out of here. You’re on your own.”

“I thought that we were friends!”

“Greg ain’t friends with nobody. He looks after himself. Bye.” The dwarf-goblin wrenched out of John’s grasp and scurried away.

“Well, I’m not afraid,” said John as second roar sounded from beyond the wall. “Things aren’t what they seem in this place.” She peeked around the corner.

An enormous horned beast hung upside down in a rope net while a trio of goblins in suits of armour and helmets tortured it with sticks. Tied to the end of each stick were bug-eyed hairless guinea pigs that sank their sharp teeth in the furry captive’s flanks while the goblins shouted taunts:

“Try this one for size, you big yeti!”

“We’ve got you now, fuzz ball. Ha, ha!”

“All together now!” The three advanced on their prisoner at once; the beast snarled and howled.

“If only I had something to throw,” said John. She looked down; a rock rolled toward the tip of her boot. She picked it up and threw it at one of the goblin’s heads. It hit the mark, causing the goblin’s helmet to spin. Blinded, he swung his stick wide and smacked his companion. The tiny creature at the tip of the stick closed its jaws around the second goblin’s arm.

“Hey, why’d you bite me?” he cried and swung his stick in the general direction of his assailant.

“I can’t see! Who bite who?” shouted the first.

More rocks rolled to John’s feet, and she pelted the goblins. Their organized assault of the beast quickly devolved into a comical scene of accusations against each other— _Who bit me?_ —and confusion— _Ow, ow! What? What?_ —until finally one cried, “Retreat!” and they ran away, abandoning their victim.

When goblins’ yapping faded, John approached the beast. It roared.

“Now, stop that. Is that any way to treat someone who’s trying to help you?”

The beast gave John a sullen look.

“Don’t you want to get down?”

“Don. Down,” grumbled the beast.

“Don? Is that your name?”

The beast shrugged.

“If I get you down, are you going to eat me?”

The beast rolled its eyes.

“Alright.” John loosened the knotted rope and slowly lowered the beast to the ground. It brushed itself off and stood up.

“Hello, Don. I’m John.” John extended her hand.

The beast growled. It snatched up one of the rocks and began scratching on the stone tile. John peered under its hulking frame and read.

“DONOVAN. Oh, okay. Let me guess, the Goblin King put a curse on you.”

It lifted its head to the sky and roared angrily. Then it bent and scratched ‘YES,’ followed by ‘KING=FREAK!’

“How about you come with me to the castle? I’m on my way to rescue my sister who’s being held captive there. I could use some muscle.” The beast looked down at John and shrugged.

“If you do, I’ll see if I can get your curse reversed.” The beast nodded, and they set off around the corner. They came to a dead end and crossed through a wooden door into a dark, spooky woods. John heard the beast’s panting quicken as they made their way along a path.

“There’s nothing to be scared of,” said John, not sure who she was trying to reassure more, her companion or herself. She took the beast’s hand in hers, and they continued. After a few minutes, John realized that her hand was empty. The beast was not behind her. It was as if it had simply vanished, without a sound. She was alone.

“Donovan? Donovan?”

Silence. John had the feeling that she was being watched.

“Who’s there?”

A gang of red feathered creatures appeared.

“What do you want?” asked John.

“We’re just here to have a good time!” cackled one. “That’s right,” said another. It ran its finger along the ground, lighting it like a struck match. It set a pile of debris ablaze, and the whole gang began to sing.

“ _Ain’t got no problems. No problems. Ain’t got no suitcase. No suitcase._

_Ain’t got no clothes to worry about. No clothes to worry about._

_Aint got no clothes or real estate or jewelry or gold mines to hang me up._

_I’ll just throw in my hand_ …”

The lead singer removed its hand as if casting off a glove and dropped it into the fire. The hand regenerated immediately.

“… _with the chilliest bunch in the land. When the thing gets wild, chilly down, chilly down with the fire gang_.”

One creature poked two long fingers in its face, plucking out its eyeballs and rolling them like dice.

“Snake eyes!”

The gang laughed. Another yanked off its head, and the gang began to play a makeshift game of basketball, using the head as ball. Then they turned their attention to John and launched themselves at her.

“Hey, her head don’t come off!” Their long arms wrapped around John’s neck and pulled.

“Of course it doesn’t!” One by one, John ripped their heads off and threw them as far as she could.

“Hey, lady! You can’t throw other people’s heads. You can only throw your own.”

John ran, and as soon as the creatures had found and reattached their heads, they gave pursuit. John headed toward a steep rocky outcropping. Like an answer to prayer, a rope fell from above.

“Grab it.”

John looked up; it was the dwarf-goblin. She climbed the rope just as the red creatures reached her.

“Am I happy to see you, Garrett!” she cried.

“It’s Greg!”

John groaned. “It’s ridiculous that I can’t remember that! Do you have a pen?”

“Uh, as a matter of fact, I do,” said the dwarf-goblin, producing one from his many-pocketed vest.

“Write your name on the inside of my finger.” With a shaky hand, the dwarf-goblin did as John asked. John looked at the letters. “Perfect. See, now I can say, thank you for saving me, Gr—“

John pulled the dwarf-goblin to her and pressed her lips to the top of his head.

“No, no, no!” cried the dwarf-goblin. The ground beneath their feet gave way, and they slid down, down to the edge of a swamp. The murky green water bubbled and belched a putrid aroma that John had ever smelled.

“Oh my God! What is that?”

The dwarf-goblin retched. “This is the Bog of Eternal Stench!” he groaned. “You shouldn’t have done that!”

“What? Try to say your name?”

“No, the other.”

“Ugh! Let’s get out of here!” They ran along the water’s edge. “Hey! Donovan!” The great beast was huddled against the side of a rocky cliff. “So this is where you got to!”

“Smell bad,” it groaned.

“Yeah, we’re looking for a way out. There’s a bridge over there.”

The trio approached the bridge and out popped a fox, standing on its hind legs. It wore a bespoke suit and shook a tiny umbrella at them.

“Halt!” it cried in a voice that would have been imperial and menacing if it hadn’t come from such a small and amusingly-costumed animal. “You may not pass!”

John shook her head and bit back a laugh. “Who are you?”

“I am Sir Epididymis. And you may not pass!”

“Oh, Lord!” said John. “Epididymis? The Goblin King must really hate you!”

“You think?” retorted the fox. It eyed John sharply. “Who are _you_?”

“I’m John. The Goblin King kidnapped my sister. I’m going to rescue her. These folks,” she pointed to the beast and the dwarf-goblin, “are helping me. So, why don’t you tell me what kind of curse you’re under, and I’ll add it to my list of grievances when I get to castle and confront the Goblin King?”

The fox continued its study of John. “You’re a soldier?”

“Was. Doctor, too. If that matters.”

“It does. Not a…princess?” the fox asked.

John laughed. “Do I look like a princess?! You’re a riot, Mister. So, about your curse…”

“It’s personal,” said the fox curtly.

“I bet it is. I’ve seen a lot of unusual creatures today, but you take the cake.”

“Cake,” echoed the fox with a forlorn sigh and licked its lips.

John shook her head and said impatiently. “Whatever. Keep it to yourself. Now, let’s us through.” She made to push past the fox, but it stepped in front of her and whacked her shin with its umbrella.

“Hey!” yelled John. “I’m not a violent person, but I don’t back down from a fight, and my friend here,” she gestured behind her and the beast roared, “has got at least ten stone on you. You will lose.”

“Doubtful,” said the fox. It snapped its fingers, and a long dark snake emerged from the swamp waters. It hissed and flicked its forked tongue; then it lunged. The beast and the dwarf-goblin scurried behind the nearest tree, whimpering.

“The one concession the, uh, _King_ afforded me was my choice of companion. A black mamba tends to silence arguments and forestall threats. Anthea here is as deadly as he seems.” The snake slithered coiled around John’s boot.

John clenched her jaw. She stood perfectly still, head forward, eyes open.

“Ah, the bravery of the soldier,” said the fox, twirling its umbrella. “Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. I’m not the one guarding a rickety bridge over a smelly bog.” She met the fox's gaze.

“No. You joined a land war in Asia,” it countered with a smirk.

“How do you know that?”

The fox said cryptically, “I’m the smart one.” Then it twitched its tale and stabbed the tip of its umbrella in the ground. “I’ve got my orders. No one is to pass without my permission.”

John’s eyes widened; she turned her head. “May we have your permission?” she asked sweetly.

The fox stared. Then it blinked. “A loophole! I love loopholes!” It danced around the staked umbrella.

“May we?” repeated John.

The fox stopped its merry-making. “Yes,” it said after a few moments of thought. It snapped its fingers again, and the snake uncurled from John’s boot.

“Great! Thanks! I’ll still add you to my list. It can’t be fun being stuck in this horrid place.”

“Do you think you’ll actually be successful? Defeat the Goblin King in his own castle?”

“I’ve got to try. There’s a small army of cursed creatures depending on me now.”

“Would you mind if Anthea and I accompany you? I’d like to see just how far you’re able to go. You… _interest_ …me.”

“Sure. The more, the merrier. Now, as much as I’d love to chat, the clock is ticking for my sister, and the castle is right there,” she pointed to the fortress just beyond the bridge, “so I’m eager to push on.”

“By all means,” said the fox. It extended its arms, and the snake slithered up one tiny leg and draped itself around the fox’s neck and shoulders like a scarf. The fox led the way across the bridge, with the beast, the dwarf-goblin, and John close behind.

They walked and walked.

“How can it still be so far away?” John asked, looking up at the castle. “It seems like we should be nearer than we are.” Her stomach rumbled.

“Maybe we should take a break,” suggested the dwarf-goblin.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said John. “Though I wouldn’t say no to a snack if we happen to spot something edible along the way.”

The dwarf-goblin paused. He sank his hand in one of the pockets of his vest and pulled out a round fruit.

“A peach! Wow, that looks good!” exclaimed John.

The dwarf-goblin’s face fell.

“Hey, sorry. It’s yours. I’m not going to take it from you. You’re probably as hungry as I am. Or we could split it.”

“Take it! I hate ‘em!” He thrust the peach into John’s hand and stomped ahead. “Damn you!” he whispered, as he fled, “And damn me, too!”

John was puzzled, but shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said and bit into the fruit. It was sweet and delicious. She hurried down the path to catch up with the group, but with every bite of the peach her thoughts grew cloudier and her limbs heavier. She stumbled towards a tree and stretched a hand out to steady herself.

“Everything’s spinning,” she said as she sank to the ground and leaned against a trunk. From nowhere, a stream of bubbles floated past. One hovered just in front of her, and John thought she saw her own reflection in it.

“No, everything’s not spinning,” she said.

“Everything’s dancing.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John attends the Queen's masquerade ball. 
> 
> This is the explicit portion of the story. And though the words 'Alpha' and 'Omega' and 'heat' purposefully aren't used, any reader familiar with Omegaverse will recognize the elements.

“I’m a princess.”

John’s jaw dropped when she saw her reflection in the bubble. Army fatigues had been transformed into a sparkling ball gown, and her hair! She turned to get a better view of the thick golden waves that hung down her back and the tiny ribbons laced in the curls. She raised a hand to her head and felt metal with sharp edges.

A tiara.

“This is stranger than a talking fox in a Saville Row suit.”

In the blink of an eye, the woods disappeared, and John was somehow _inside_ the bubble, in the centre of a dance floor. Couples in fancy dress turned their masked faces towards her as they twirled past.

“A masquerade ball. And me as Cinderella.”

“Do you like fairy tales?”

The crowd parted, and the Goblin Queen strode forward in an amethyst-coloured jacket, tan breeches, and her ubiquitous dark boots. John’s feet seemed to move of their own accord, drawing her closer and closer to the Queen, who extended a gloved hand. John allowed herself to be pulled into a dance partner’s embrace; she stared at their joined palms and answered vaguely,

“Not particularly.”

“Neither do I.” The Queen led John in a slow waltz.

At first, John gripped the Queen tightly, unsure in her footing and unnerved, not by the other dancers’ curious glances nor her partner’s intense gaze, but by the layer upon layer of fabric encircling her lower half. With time, however, she grew less clumsy and more attuned to the Queen’s subtle gestures. Very soon they were gliding and spinning effortlessly as an orchestra played on.

“This is,” John’s voice was thick, “a dream.”

“A dream within a dream, to be precise.”

John nodded as if she understood and studied the world beyond the dance floor: tall ceilings, stately columns, and black-and-white marble floors. “It’s a palace. Extraordinary.”

A small, tight smile bloomed on the Queen’s lips. “You think so?”

“Of course. You must be a powerful goblin, _the_ most powerful goblin.”

The Queen frowned. “Just because I rule the goblins, doesn’t mean that I am one of them.”

Her words barely registered. John’s head spun far faster than her body. “Everything is lovely. The music, the scenery, even the scent in the air is,” she struggled to find the word, “enchanting. I’m enchanted. I know we’re on opposing sides in this tale, but for the moment, I’m spellbound.”

As John spoke, the Queen’s expression changed. John feared she had been too frank, but the Queen seemed earnestly intrigued. She steered John toward a wide bank of cushioned seats at the edge of the dance floor where couples were scattered, sitting close, chatting and laughing.

“Describe the fragrance.”

“You can’t smell it?”

“Lamentably, it’s the one thing my mind can’t conjure and my powers of observation can’t detect.”

John closed her eyes and inhaled. “It smells like chemicals, wool, uh, something piny and slightly sweet…”

“Like tree sap? Like rosin, for a string instrument?”

“I don’t know. I played clarinet in school, but that was a long time ago. It smells like adventure, the old fashioned kind with knights and monsters and...”

“Pirates?”

“Yes. How silly is that?” John opened her eyes.

“Incredibly silly,” said the Queen softly. She gestured for John to sit. John eyed the cushions with trepidation. Slowly, carefully, she lowered herself, tugging at her dress until she was able to recline, ensconced in a cloud of satin and tulle. The Queen sat beside her.

“What do you smell?” asked John.

“Gun oil, far too much tea…”

“No such thing.”

The Queen raised an eyebrow.

John explained, “There’s no such thing as too much tea.”

The Queen laughed. “And,” she continued, “safety, that is to say, refuge, or haven.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Since you’ve been frank, I will too: it’s intoxicating.”

“Yes,” agreed John. “That’s the word. You want to breathe it deep inside you…”

“…consume it, allow it to consume you…”

“Yes.” John stared at the Queen’s mouth. Those lips, they were perfect for…

Kissing. They were kissing. How had John ever thought this creature cruel? Her lips were so very soft and pliant, and they were caressing hers with such gentleness. Exploring, yes. Claiming, oh, yes. But lovely.

The aroma that John had described was thick now; she could almost taste it on the Queen’s mouth. Not wanting the kiss to end, she leaned forward and gripped the Queen’s jacket. Then she felt a strong arm wrap around her waist and pull her closer. Volumes of material crinkled.

The dress. John suddenly remembered where she was and pulled away. Her eyes darted around the room. The other guests were still dancing or engrossed in their own conversations.

“John, this is my realm. These are my minions. No one will even glance in our direction unless I command it.”

‘Oh’ was all John could think to say. Then the Queen kissed her again and kept kissing her until John was drunk on the sweetness of it.

“John?”

When John opened her eyes, her head was on the Queen’s thigh, facing outwards. She watched as couples flitted and floated across the floor. A gloved hand touched her thigh. Not rubbing. Not caressing. Tapping.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

John thought that it was wonder that a hand could even find her thigh under the folds of skirt; she was not sure that, if pressed, she could do it herself without a level of mental faculty and manual dexterity that, at the moment, she was quite certain was beyond her.

Tapping. Tapping.

“I need a ‘yes,’ John.”

John turned her head and laughed. “You blackmail me, try to kill me, drug me, dress me up like a music box ballerina, and _now_ you want my consent?”

“I’m a villain, not a monster.”

“Oh well, in _that_ case, yes.” John turned back toward the spectacle.

A silk-clad hand rubbed tiny circles and then inched closer to…knickers.

Not pants, knickers.

“Oh Lord. We are through the looking glass, aren’t we?” she mumbled. “The last time I was wearing proper knickers I was still having imaginary tea parties with plush animals.”

But, casting thoughts of ludicrous undergarments aside, John found the scene delightfully obscene: being exquisitely teased, watching the hypnotic movements on the dance floor, breathing in that delicious miasma.

She sighed.

A hand cupped her, and John rut against it. A finger toyed with lace edges, and John squirmed. Then it was not silk-on-silk-and-lace, but silk-on-skin-and-damp-hair. And that was an entirely new level of bliss. But when a silk thumb brushed her clit, John jolted.

The hand was gone. Then it was back, rubbing back and forth across John’s belly, just below her navel. Back and forth, back and forth, it moved slowly southward. John groaned and felt herself grow even wetter with anticipation. Then it was touching hair again. And the two fingers were parting and pressing lightly on either side of her clit.

And John might have heard a very scientific-sounding, chastising voice mumble something about indirect versus direct pressure. But she didn’t care. Because she was well and truly keening, turning her face into the soft cloth of the Queen’s breeches, squeezing the gloved hand between her thighs, and wallowing in the pleasure of it all. She bit down hard and caught thin material between her teeth.

“John?”

She twisted her head. Rip! She looked back, aghast. Then a thought occurred: those breeches were not made of sturdy stuff. Really, they were more like stockings than trousers.

She sat up abruptly.

“John, John, John, you can’t know what it smells like, what it is doing to me…”

“Can’t I?” John looked down at the front of the Queen’s breeches. A dark wet stain bloomed, and the outline of a fully erect member was clearly visible. John covered the cock with her hand and felt it twitch.

“I need a ‘yes,’” she said with a grin.

“YES!”

With two hands, John very carefully pulled the taunt fabric away from the Queen’s body, and with those same two hands, she very recklessly tore it. Then, she flexed her thighs and positioned herself atop the head of the Queen’s cock.

“Help me.”

A gloved hand yanked the crotch of John’s knickers aside. “I can conjure some lu-u-u—“

John sank down. “Does it feel like we need lubricant?” she whispered.

“No, no, no. So wet. So improbably, improbably wet. Oh, _oh_.”

When the Queen was fully sheathed, John rocked gently, front-to-back, revelling in the sensation of being filled. The Queen’s eyes were closed, her head thrown back, and her mouth curved in a beautiful, round, silent ‘O.’

“Breath with me,” urged John. “It’s even better if you breathe _with_ me.”

The Queen’s eyes fluttered open. Within a few moments, the rise and fall of chests were synchronized. Gloved hands gripped John’s buttocks, steadying her as their hips moved together. The Queen thrust up, and John dropped down, until they were panting in each other’s ear.

“Now, now, John.”

“Yeah, I feel it.”

With one hard, quick motion, John sank down as the Queen’s hips canted up. Then she covered the Queen’s mouth with her own, swallowing the cry.

“Shhh, what will the minions say?”

“Not a word if they favour their heads remaining attached to their bodies.”

John laughed. “I met a few that wouldn’t mind that.”

“Ah yes, the Fire Gang.”

“Can’t imagine why they didn’t score an invitation to this gig,” said John dryly. She looked around and then raised an eyebrow.

The Queen giggled. Then John giggled. Then the Queen shifted. “John…”

John squeezed the cock still inside her. “Stay, just a minute. I like this part. Draw it out a bit.”

The Queen hummed and kissed her lips.

Finally, John pulled off. She tried to twist in the Queen’s lap, but she was tethered by acreage of skirt.

“Get me out of this cage,” she growled. It took quite a few long, frustrating moments and two pairs of hands working before John felt the dress loosen. And then she wriggled out of it and knickers both, like a fish escaping the net. She sat atop the soft, sparkly mound and leaned back. Hands were in her hair, lifting it, brushing it away and then a cheek touch her own. She watched dark hands roam over her body.

“There’s something wicked about those gloves. The way they look. The way they feel.”

“I have to agree. Even with one wholly sodden.”

John snorted and blushed. “Sorry.”

“I’m not.” The Queen kissed John’s neck and moved down the bare slope to her shoulder. John flinched.

“What’s wrong?”

John studied her shoulder. “Um, this is definitely a dream. But not my dream.”

John felt the Queen tense.

“How do you know?” she asked sharply.

John shook her head. Then she swallowed and shifted her gaze to the swirling crowd. “Because no one’s even noticed the only naked woman in the room.” John’s voice turned cool. “Take me. Make them watch.”

The music stopped, and there was a growl. Then John was face-down in the pile of fabric and sequins, hands on the floor, arms bracing, legs curled behind on the cushion.

John knew it was a dream. One clue was her unmarred shoulder, but another was her current acrobatic pose that she would never have attempted, much less realized, even in her most able-bodied days. She saw elegant shoes and the hems of fine trousers and ball gowns draw nearer. And then she was being pumped from behind. There were loud growls from the Queen and quiet murmurs from the crowd. And when the Queen came, John didn’t topple over onto the floor as she expected, but rather was hoisted bodily back onto the Queen’s lap. By more than two hands.

Just a dream, but oh! What a dream!

John buried her face in the crook of the Queen’s neck and breathed in the scent. Her knees came up and the Queen’s arms came ‘round encircling her.

“Your Majesty?”

“Oh for God’s sake! Don’t call me that!”

“What should I call you?” John looked at her.

The Queen shook her head slowly, her grey eyes sad. Then her gaze moved from John to the crowd.

“Oh my. That’s the trouble with minions. They are so very _impressionable_.”

John glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes widened. The dancing had devolved into a more carnal celebration, with couples in various stages of undress, kissing, touching, and, yes, John noted, performing sexual gymnastics of their own. She watched one guest kneeling before another, mouth on cock, and her own body stirred.

She nodded toward the pair and wiggled her eyebrows.

The Queen laughed. “Be my _guest_.”

John pushed the heap of dress farther away as she slid to the floor. Then she turned all her attention to the cock before her, tasting head, shaft and base. She moved from spit-soaked bobbing to tight sucking, from light licking to taking in as much in as her mouth and throat allowed. As she worked, she heard her gasping and babbling, her name uttered in a variety of intonations. She felt the floor vibrate as the noises grew louder and cries more urgent.

John swallowed the Queen down as she came and thought that she had finally found the source of that heady fragrance. It was on her tongue, coating her mouth and throat. She was consuming it, and it was consuming her. Then once again, she was being hoisted up.

The Queen took John by the shoulders and shook her.

“Come!”

John stared at her, then laughed. “You can’t _order_ me to come!”

“Can’t I?”

John shook her head. “Nope.”

“John, I would very much like for you to come.”

“Ha!” The puzzled look on Queen’s face made something warm and light flutter in John’s chest. “Asking _is_ a polite form of ordering, but it still doesn’t work like that.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

“Gladly.”

John straddled one of the Queen’s thighs and began to rut, never taking her eyes from the Queen’s. The Queen watched John with an intense stare that bordered on preternatural, but John was determined to not blink or shy away from her scrutiny.

Let her see. Let her know. She wants to know. She… _needs?_ …to know. John pushed aside the thoughts that kept creeping in. The warmth was growing, but it still wasn’t…

“John. Please come. Please.”

That was it. John arched and felt the support of two hands, catching her as she fell backwards. A nose nuzzled between her breasts, almost affectionately, and John laughed.

When the pleasure subsided, John was stretched lengthwise on the cushions, staring up at the ceiling, basking in the afterglow, not thinking much of anything, when the Queen said,

“I want to taste you.”

John lifted her head and shook it. “No. Not even in a dream. You aren’t…. You aren’t….” John let the words die. How to explain? John imagined the Queen would be angry, or insistent, but she just nodded and began removing her gloves, finger by finger.

At that moment, a tray loaded with champagne flutes floated over John’s head like a skipping cloud.

“Would you care for some refreshment?”

John shook her head. “I don’t really touch the stuff these days. Not since I moved in with Harry.”

She shot up.

“Oh fuck! Harry! What am I doing?! I’ve got to get back! My time is running out!”

And with that, John’s world shattered like glass.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John gets by with a little help from her friends and returns the favour.

“Let’s go quickly,” said John gruffly. “We don’t have much time.” Stomping, she pushed ahead of the dwarf-goblin, the beast, and Sir Epididymis and Anthea.

She was angry. Angry at the Queen, but more angry at herself for being so easily distracted.

With John setting a brisk pace, they soon reached the gate to the Goblin City. An armoured guard sat snoozing at his post.

“Hey! Open it up!” shouted John, rapping with her knuckles on the guard’s metal visor.

“My Dear, there’s no need to be crude,” said Sir Epididymis. “If you would.” The beast stepped forward and easily pushed the gate open.

“Ah well, thank you,” said John, stepping through the threshold. “I hope there’s lots and lots of nasty goblins. I am itching for a fight!”

The town was quiet.

John scratched her head. “Huh. Guess we’ve got the element of surprise on our hands.”

“Doubtful,” said Sir Epididymis. “Someone is always watching.” He pointed to a snowy owl perched on the edge of a shingled roof. It hooted and flew away.

Then the goblins came swarming like ants, down through the winding streets and around the corners. The tiny band braced themselves.

And then they fought.

The beast took the lead, swatting angry goblins like flies. Sir Epididymis drew a sword from the staff of his umbrella and advanced, unleashing Anthea, who gleefully hissed and bit and frightened the goblins to apoplexy. John and the dwarf-goblin fought together, punching and kicking their way through the melee. John wrenched a spear from one of her assailants and began to wield it like a sabre. She unleashed all her pent-up rage and frustration and moved toward the looming spire in the distance, screaming and swearing all the while.

At one point, she and the dwarf-goblin were back-to-back, fending off attack from either side.

“I’m sorry, John. You were my friend. I shouldn’t have given you that peach. The Goblin King forced me.”

“It’s alright. Now I know what it feels like to be spellbound by that creature, and I’ve smelled the Bog of Eternal Stench. I might have done the same things. We’re still friends.”

“Really?” The dwarf-goblin turned and stared at her.

“Yeah, watch out!” John gave a roundhouse kick to a goblin as it raised its stubby axe over their heads.

“Thank you.”

They fought and fought until finally, there was a loud roar. John looked around. It wasn’t coming from the castle. It was coming from the beast.

“DONOVAN!”

The beast grinned. “ROCKS! FRIENDS!”

Of their own volition, boulders rolled down the streets, careening into the goblins and thwarting all their efforts.

“Wow!” said John. “That is our secret weapon. Rocks!” She watched the onslaught destroy everything in its path, effectively clearing a way forward.

“Well done!” cried Sir Epididymis as Anthea slithered back onto his shoulders. “ _On y va!_ ”

They found the entrance to the castle and pushed their way through. The courtyard was empty, save for a large ticking clock.

“Oh no! I’ve only a few more minutes to save Harry!” said John.

Sir Epididymis pointed to an archway with a stone staircase leading upwards. “That’s the only way they could’ve gone.”

“How do you know?” asked John.

The fox smiled cryptically and said, “I’m the smart one.”

John looked at the group. “This is where I leave you. Thank you for accompanying me thus far, but I can’t ask you to go any farther. This is my battle to wage, alone—but I haven’t forgotten my promises.”

“Perhaps we’ll meet again one day,” said Sir Epididymis, bowing.

“I’d like that,” said John, smiling at each one in turn. “I count you all as friends.”

“Good luck,” said the dwarf-goblin. The beast waved.

John turned and hurried up the stairs, but when she reached the top, she gasped.

“It’s an Escher drawing.”

There were stone stairways that led nowhere and walkways in between. Up was down and down was up. John climbed and crossed over. She made to climb up again, but so realized she was climbing down. She looked up and saw the Queen smirking from a stone ledge.

“Quite the puzzle, isn’t it?”

“Where’s Harry?”

“Tut, tut. Not very observant, John.” The Queen produced the crystal ball and dropped it down the gap in the middle the stairways.

John watched it fall and hit the top of a cage suspended several stories below her.

“Harry!” she screamed.

The reply echoed from below. “Johnnie! It’s about time! Christ! Where have you been? Get me out of this freak fest!”

John tried to find a way down. “It’s impossible! How do I reach you?”

“Figure something out, Captain!”

The clock ticked louder. Then it began to chime. One, two, three…

There was only one way to reach her in time. Jump. John closed her eyes and stepped off the ledge.

John was falling, tumbling. The cage disappeared. She was back in the entrance courtyard. The Queen appeared from the shadows, bedecked in cape of snowy white feathers. With gold-painted eyelids and frosted hair, she cut a menacing, strigine figure.

“That’s not fair! I got to her in time!” protested John.

“John, beware. I have been generous until now. I can be cruel.”

“You’re barking! Generous? What have you done that’s generous?”

“Everything. You wanted your sister taken. I took her. You wanted a puzzle, I gave it to you. You wanted a fight, I gave that to you as well. You were alone, I brought companions to your side. I reordered time.” She gestured to the thirteen-hour clock. “I turned the world upside down. And I have done it all for you. I am exhausted from living up to your expectations of me. Isn’t that generous?”

“I didn’t ask for the ball.”

“No,” admitted the Queen. “That was…”

The words of the childhood poem came back to John, and she bore into the Queen with angry eyes and recited:

“Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered,

I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City.

To take back the child you have stolen. For my will is as strong as yours, and my—“

“Stop,” said the Queen. “Look, John. Look at what I’m offering you.” She held up her hand, and the crystal ball appeared. “Your dreams.”

“What do you know of my dreams?”

“I see,” the Queer peered into the orb, “utility, purpose, danger.”

John remembered all the promises that she had made along her journey. Now was the time. “Are these true negotiations or are you just making villainous threats?”

The Queen’s eyebrow rose. “By all means, make me an offer,” she said and crossed her arms.

“One, reverse the curse on the dwarf-goblin so that his name can be remembered.”

“If you can tell me his name, I’ll consider it.”

“Oh, no,” John feigned consternation. She put her hand over her eyes and spread her fingers. “It’s…Greg.”

The Queen’s eyes widened, and then she squinted. “What else?”

“Restore Anderson and Donovan to their original forms, and restore Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner to their proper homes.”

“I am not going to cede my entire palace!”

“You don’t need all of this,” said John, extending her arms. “Take what you actually require, and give them the rest to divide as they wish. This is their land.”

The Queen grunted.

“Free Sir Epididymis and Anthea from their curses as well.”

The Queen growled. “No!”

John added, “And free my sister.”

“That’s the one that I am mostly likely to fulfil. I have had two brief conversations with her.”

“I could’ve told you: almost as mean sober as she is drunk.”

“Indeed, most unpleasant _and_ common. Dull.” The Queen pursed her lips and nodded. “Back to your list. It’s long and varied. What do I get in return for so many grievous concessions?”

“I don’t know. What do you want that I can give?”

“Your freedom. Stay with me. Be my slave.”

“Does that mean,” John gulped, “more masquerade balls?”

“It means whatever I wish it to mean. My will. My desire. Not yours. You ransom yourself and your future.”

Once her initial spark of outrage abated, John considered the Queen’s offer. If she returned to her world, she’d have no utility, no purpose, and the most dangerous thing she’d do all day is close her eyes at night. Here, well, at least things wouldn’t be boring, and she might actually be granted her own quarters rather than squatting on Harry’s sofa. She’d hadn’t felt a pang in her leg or a tremble in her hand since she’d first set out for the labyrinth.

Really there was not much to consider.

“Deal.” John extended her hand. The Queen took it and pulled John to her, cupping her jaw in her other hand and kissing her chastely on the lips.

And for the second time, John’s world shattered like glass.

* * *

John woke.

Sofa. Cane. Boxes. Whiskey.

Just a dream.

A loud noise pierced the silence and startled her. Then she laughed.

It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard: the loud, obnoxious, and utterly unmistakable sound of a drunk passed out on her back. 


	6. Chapter 6

John dabbed liquid adhesive onto the broken edges. Then she held the two pieces together. After few minutes, she surveyed her work.

“Not bad.”

Only a thin crack was still visible across the torso of the figurine. She wrapped it in newspaper and laid it gently in the corner of a box. Then she filled the box with more newspaper and taped it shut.

_Beep!_

John looked at her mobile. Well, Harry’s mobile. The one’d she’d tossed John’s way, with a ‘She always liked you better anyway.’

_Appointment with Ella._

Ugh! Well, at least she’d have something to talk about today. On second thought, she’d better keep her mouth shut. If she told Ella about her dream, she might end up getting fitted for a straightjacket. Or a med cocktail that’d be her one way ticket back to Goblin City. Permanently.

She took a deep breath. Maybe she’d cut through the park today.

* * *

“John! John Watson!”

John stopped and leaned heavily on her cane. A woman rose from a park bench, smiling.

“Stamford. Mike, that is, Michaela Stamford. We were at Bart’s together.”

John chuckled. “You think I’d forget?!”

“Well, I did get fat.”

“You still look _great_ , Magic Mike.”

Mike’s smile turned into a grin. “And you still know how to get a girl to buy you a drink. Coffee?”

* * *

They returned to the same bench, cups in hand.

“Are you still at Bart’s, then?” asked John.

“Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!” They laughed. “Heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?”

“Got shot.”

“Army taking care of you?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m okay. Well, the hardware’s a little banged up.” John tapped her cane on the ground. “Software, too, come to think of it, but I’m okay.”

“John.” Mike gave her a serious look.

“I mean it. I’m okay. They’re good about that stuff, you know. As far as living situation, I’m, uh, staying with Harry until I get myself sorted.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s that working?”

John grimaced. “’Bout like you’d expect.”

Mike nodded. “Couldn’t you, I dunno, get a flatshare or something?”

“Come on, who’d want me for a flatmate?”

Mike laughed and then looked thoughtful. “You’re the second person to say that to me today.”

“Yeah, well, everybody’s looking for a place to land, a place to call home, aren’t they?”

“Why don’t you let me take you to lunch? We could go by some of our old haunts afterwards.”

“Considering what you did for me back then, I should be taking you to lunch. Today. Every day.”

Mike patted her belly. “I wouldn’t want to eat you out of your army pension.”

“I’d love to see you try. Seriously, I’m eternally grateful. You and the others worked a bloody miracle for me.”

“Come to lunch. I may have one more in my pocket.”

* * *

“Well, bit different from my day,” said John as they walked through the door.

She froze.

No. It couldn’t be.

The Goblin Queen, sitting at a lab bench at Bart’s. The hair was different, dark, wavy, pulled back in a loose twist. The wardrobe was much less theatrical; she wore a suit that fit like a glove and looked like it cost half of John’s army pension. The face wasn’t painted, but the features: the grey eyes, the curl of the mouth, the aquiline nose. The way she moved.

It was her.

She and Mike were talking. She needed a phone. John fished the mobile out her pocket and offered it.

“Er, here. Use mine.”

“Oh, thank you.”

John’s heart skipped a beat. She held her breath.

The voice. Holy Mother of God. That voice. How, how?

Mike extended a hand.

“A friend of mine, John Watson.”

The woman was tapping on the screen. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Sorry?” John looked to Mike, who just smiled warmly and nodded.

The woman was still tapping away at that phone. “Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. How did…?” John looked again at Mike, who, at this point, was positively beaming. Like a bride on her wedding day.

What is going on? Does Mike know about my dream, too? Is the universe playing some sort of joke on me? Is this a reality programme? Make John have a dream starring some random stranger?

A young woman entered the room, bringing coffee. There was talking. She left. There was more talking. It was all background noise to John’s thoughts.

Then John realized that the conversation was being directed at her, but she only heard one word, ‘flatmate.’ She hurled a question at Mike. “Did you tell her about me?!”

Mike’s expression grew solemn “Not a word.”

John asked sharply, “Then who said anything about flatmates?”

The woman’s reply was matter-of-fact. “ _I_ did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult person to find a flatmate for. Now here she is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

More talking at her. John only heard the tone. That tone. That _imperial_ tone. How, how, how?

She heard ‘tomorrow evening’ and ‘seven o’clock.’ She threw an exasperated look at Mike, who was back to beaming. Oh, this is the miracle she was hinting at earlier. A flatshare.

Wait a minute, where? Who _is_ this person?

“We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.” And then there’s the wee facts that you kidnapped my sister, tried to kill me several times, and, oh yeah, _shagged my fucking brains out!_ All last night!

John felt herself unravelling.

Then the woman was in John’s space, looking down on her, breathing on her, describing her, saying things about her, real things, not dream things. But all John could see were the lips moving. And all she could remember were those lips on hers.

“The name’s…”

Christ, if you say Queenie McGoblin of Labyrinth-shire, I will slay you with this cane!

“…Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon, Mike.”

John stared. Then she mumbled a few pleasantries to Mike and hobbled out of the door.

* * *

“Miss, miss.”

John startled. She opened her eyes.

“We’re about to close.”

“Of course. Time to go home.”

* * *

John said her familiar prayer, “A little peace and quiet tonight, please,” but as she turned the key, she remembered.

The whiskey.

The flat was quiet. The television screen cast a flickering glow on the room.

Harry. On the couch. Empty bottle. On the floor.

John sighed. She performed checks for pulse and respiration and limped to the loo for a wet flannel. She wiped the vomit from Harry’s mouth and chin and parts of the sofa and floor. She turned her sister on her side and covered her with a blanket. Then she pushed the boxes with her foot and made a clear path to the bedroom and toilet. She looked back and addressed the sleeping form.

“Mind if I take your bed tonight? I’ve had a rough day. No? Oh, how generous of you. Laptop, too? Fabulous. There’s someone I want to look up. Sweet dreams, Harry.”

* * *

By the time John reached the address the following evening, she’d convinced herself that it was all a mistake. There were plenty of people who looked like other people. Everybody had a doppelganger, they said. Maybe she’d seen her somewhere, on the tube, perhaps, and she’d stuck in John’s subconscious somehow. Why she looked so much like John’s childhood toy took some more pondering, but finally, John had settled on coincidence. Hell, maybe she had a family member in the figurine business, and the resemblance was genuine. It was possible, unlikely, but possible.

Regardless, John was determined to prevent it from bothering her. If this flatshare worked out, even temporarily, it would get her off of Harry’s sofa and that would be a blessing.

John approached the door and, as she always did in these instances, fell back on formality.

“Ms. Holmes,” she said, extending her hand.

“Sherlock, please.”

Ignore it, ignore it, ignore the voice. Focus on being pleasant to the landlady and hauling your crippled arse up the stairs.

John looked around the flat. “Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed.”

“My thoughts precisely…” said Sherlock

“Soon as we get this rubbish cleaned out.”

“…so I went straight ahead and moved in.”

“Oh,” said John, blushing. This is how she lives?

“Well, obviously, I can straighten things up a bit.” Sherlock took a box from the top of a tall stack and dropped it on the floor by the nearest armchair. Then she scooped up a couple of letters and put them on the mantelpiece and stabbed a knife into them.

John stared.

On the mantelpiece, beside a human skull, was a crystal ball and a snowy owl.

She pointed toward them with her cane.

“That’s a…”

Sherlock stopped her tidying. “Skull? Yes, friend of mine. Well, when I say ‘friend’…”

John shook her head. “Is the _owl_ a friend?”

“I didn’t kill it, if that’s what you’re wondering. It died of natural causes. It’s very old, but well preserved and cared for. I oversaw the taxidermy myself, but left most of the details to a professional, being only a tot at the time.”

John wobbled. Then she dropped into the nearest armchair.

Coincidence. Pure coincidence.

John tried to remember if anyone had ever mentioned her sleepwalking. There had been some odd cases in the news. Maybe she had walked all the way here and never remembered a thing.

The landlady came back with a newspaper. She and Sherlock chatted about suicides.

John wasn’t paying attention. Her eye had caught a box on the floor near her feet. A small head poked out of crumpled newspaper. She reached for it.

It was a doll. In army fatigues. With chopped blonde hair. Wearing a tiara.

John’s mouth went dry. The room spun.

She stared at the doll, and the doll stared back at her. She barely registered someone charging up the stairs and the back-and-forth with Sherlock.

John’s hand trembled. She slowly set the doll on the floor lest she drop it.

The visitor left. Sherlock turned, and John just looked at her. She’d never felt so lost in her life.

The voice was low and gentle.

“It’s a childhood toy, John.”

John closed her eyes.

Don’t talk to me like that. Don’t say my name. Just don’t.

She licked her lips and consciously forced air from her throat. “B-b-bit unusual,” she croaked.

“I asked for a toy soldier that Christmas. My mother had other ideas, so I _made_ a soldier…”

John’s eyes flew open; she met Sherlock’s gaze again.

“…out of a princess.”

_She made a soldier out of a princess._

Christ, Christ, Christ.

John gripped the handle of her cane tightly and breathed,

“It was just a dream.”

Sherlock leaned close, so close that puffs of air brushed John’s temple when she spoke.

“Yes. We’ll figure it out, but now is not the time. The game is on. Come.”

Sherlock had already re-donned her coat and scarf. She straightened and produced a pair of black gloves from her pocket.

Gloves. Oh Lord. The gloves.

“Where are we going?” asked John, not taking her eyes from Sherlock’s hands.

“Crime scene. Brixton. Lauriston Gardens. I’ll explain on the way. Well, I’ll explain a few things.”

She wants me to accompany her to a _crime scene_. John had so many questions, but she was certain that staying behind would answer none of them.

Sherlock’s voice was still low and gentle, but now urging.

“John. Please come. Please.”

John nodded and got to her feet.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one story ends and another begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to the OP on the kink meme for the prompt! Hope it met expectations! I enjoyed this journey very much.

John had mixed success at putting thoughts of the dream to the back of her mind. On the one hand, she was pleasantly flummoxed by the behind-the-curtain peek at the inner workings of Sherlock’s mind, which turned out to not be any goblin sovereign sorcery, but rather the very human genius-child of keen observation and encyclopaedic knowledge. But on the other hand, at every turn, she was being introduced to creatures she had already met in the dream. And when it turned out that Sherlock could not actually remember the Detective Inspector’s name, despite five years of acquaintanceship and constant pilfering of the DI’s badge, John had to laugh.

Admittedly, there was the distraction of assisting Sherlock in solving a murder. Four murders, in fact. And then there was preventing Sherlock from murdering herself by taking that damn pill.

But then there was also Sherlock’s touch when they were huddled together in the toilet of the Chinese restaurant, getting the powder burns out of John’s fingers. The jolt that John felt when Sherlock’s hand brushed her wasn’t nothing. It was definitely something. And she would bet her army pension that Sherlock felt that something, too.

Something that might have to do with the dream.

But they hadn’t actually spoken of the dream yet, and John wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.

So she just picked at her dim sum in silence. A glance or two across the table confirmed that she wasn’t alone in her wariness: Sherlock had been pushing a single piece of orange chicken back and forth around the plate for some time.

How to break the ice? Maybe a bit of humour.

John giggled. “Calling your sister ‘Sir Epididymis’? That’s harsh.”

Sherlock looked up and smiled.

“She’s pure bollocks.”

John laughed. Ice broken. “So, we had the same dream,” she ventured.

“I think, to be precise, we shared the same dream.”

“Most of the characters came from your world.”

“But I suspect that most of the plot came from yours.”

“Yes, from a book I read as a child. There was a figurine that came with the story, a goblin king. Well, it was labelled a king, but I always called it ‘Queen.’”

Sherlock nodded. “That would explain my wardrobe choices, among other things.”

“Harry accidentally broke it night before last. Yesterday morning, I mended it.”

“I wouldn’t have known that Harry stood for Harriet without the dream. I probably would have assumed…”

John nodded. “She’s as lovely in reality as she is in fantasy,” she said and rolled her eyes. She finished her beer and ordered another.

Now for the big questions.

“How is sharing a dream even possible, Sherlock? And what does it _mean_?”

“Those are the questions that I have been contemplating since you walked through the door of Bart’s laboratory yesterday. I can only posit some sort of mental link.”

“Telepathy? Impossible. Science fiction. I can’t read your mind. Can you read my mind? What number am I thinking of?” John squinted at her. Seven, gorgeous.

“I make bricks from clay, John, not ether, but it’s not impossible, merely highly improbable, and once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

John let her mind chew on that nugget for a while. Telepathy. The only thing that she knew about telepathy wasn’t in the realm of science fiction, but another, much more clandestine, literary genre: secondary sex romance…

“I can’t smell you.”

John blinked.

“I know that you’re an Omega, but I can’t smell you.”

WHAT THE FUCK!

John would have been less shocked—and disturbed—if Sherlock had said that she knew the frequency and form of John’s bowel movements. Secondary sex was not discussed in any society, not just polite ones. Despite seeing Sherlock flaunt social norms and decencies all night long, John was stunned.

Then she was curious. Instinctively she looked down at her arms and lap.

“It’s not you. There’s no clue on you. It’s Mike.”

“Stamford?”

“She didn’t tell you. She’s not just a professor at Bart’s. She’s on the board of the National Institute for Gender Studies, and among _very_ private circles, she is known as one of the top pheromone researchers in the world. Once, in a very unguarded moment, she told me that she’d first become interested in the subject when she and a group of fellow medical students had secretly helped a classmate develop a pheromone suppression therapy tailored to their DNA sequencing, years before such a process was even thought possible.”

“How did you know that classmate was me?”

“The way she looked at you. It was much, much more than just friendship. There was also pride. _Professional_ pride. An Omega who was able to earn a medical degree _and_ serve in the armed forces? And not be hindered by her secondary sex in any way? Impressive.”

John sipped her beer. “Okay. I’ll give you that, but the second part. Even if I weren’t on suppression therapy, you wouldn’t be able to smell me. My pheromones, that is. I can’t smell them myself. The only humans who _would_ be able to smell them are…”

She looked at Sherlock, who looked back. John dropped her glass hard on the table. She barely noticed the frothy liquid sloshing over onto her hand.

Christ, Christ, Christ. Impossible.

John’s mind went blank as she looked around the restaurant and then leaned very close to Sherlock.

“Sherlock…” she whispered.

Sherlock hissed back. “Do you think I would _joke_ about something like that?”

“I’ve _never_ heard of…”

“No one has.”

John gulped her beer. The liquid moved like a large stone down her throat.

A _female_ Alpha.

If true, it would explain…a lot. The masquerade ball.

“Sherlock, do you think…?”

“Yes.”.

“…what we smelled in the masquerade ball…”

“Yes.”

“…were our _actual_ pheromone markers?”

“There’s only one way to verify it, but I strongly suspect it, yes.”

Christ. But something didn’t make sense.

“But, Sherlock, I can’t smell _you_. Now. If you’re really a,” John’s voice fell to a whisper, “ _Alpha_ , then I should be able to smell you a kilometre away.”

“Mike wasn’t just looking at _you_ with professional pride.”

Of course. She’s on suppression therapy, too. We’re Alpha and Omega, but _not_ Alpha and Omega. John studied Sherlock’s gaunt face. Maybe that’s why I have the urge to get her to _eat_ that chicken and not torture it. And get more than an hour of sleep.

“How long?” asked John.

“I’ve been on something for fifteen years. I had a brief encounter with an Omega in university, the result of which was my dedicating myself to developing my own suppression therapy. What I concocted had many more recreational elements than was probably wise. After the third overdose, Mycroft found Stamford and, in a very short time, I was sober and properly suppressed.”

John nodded. She knew that desperation—and the relief once the right chemicals were coursing through the blood stream.

“But back to the dream, Sherlock, an Alpha-Omega telepathic link is the stuff of lurid stories, the kind that you have to find on the internet because no reputable bookstore will stock them. And even in those, the link opens _after_ the bond. Until yesterday, we were strangers!”

Sherlock shook her head. “I don’t know…”

John finished the second beer and took a deep breath. “So the masquerade ball was, uh, like a heat.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, blushing.

“But not, of course.”

“No?”

John stared at her. And then all the pieces fell into place, and she blurted out,

“You’re a virgin!”

John looked around the restaurant. It was empty.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just said it like that, but now it makes sense. The ball was your dream, Sherlock, and you’ve never shared a heat.”

“My knowledge of Omegas is largely theoretical,” Sherlock said coolly.

“And my knowledge of Alphas is ancient history so why don’t we leave the pamphlets and textbooks for ordinary Alphas and Omegas and figure this thing out for ourselves.” She grinned and watched Sherlock thaw a bit. “You weren’t ever interested in sharing a heat? Seems like something you’d at least try, if to satisfy your curiosity.”

“My mind, my interests, my biology, my,” Sherlock grimaced, “ _orientation_. Each on its own would make me eccentric, but combined, well, I’m a freak of nature.” Her voice turned icy and detached. “How many Omegas do you think would be interested in sharing a heat with _me_?” She looked down at her plate.

John put her hand on Sherlock’s. She felt her jump, but held it fast.

“Sherlock, your mind is extraordinary. Your interests are on the fascinating side of disturbing. Your biology and orientation—well, there about the greatest stroke of luck I’ve ever had! I mean, what are the odds? Wait, you can probably tell me that.”

Sherlock jerked her hand away, and John felt just the tiniest bit…unmoored. She replayed her words.

“Sherlock, I apologize. That last part came out quite egocentric. What I mean to say, if I can take my foot out of my mouth for one minute, is that you are fine. All of you is fine. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock stared at her for a moment. Then she tossed a few bills on the table and hurried out the door. John followed, running to keep up.

“Sherlock!” John reached out; her hand brushed Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock stopped and turned. Her eyes shone wet.

“No one has ever said anything like that to me. Ever. Do you understand?! It is as fantasy to me as goblins and curses.”

John smiled.

“I’m real, Sherlock, and I’m telling you the truth. You are fine, well, wonderful, actually, but also fine. And seeing as how we’re going to be flatmates, I’ll have ample opportunity to remind you of it.”

“I’ve been fighting this, hiding this, for what seems like my whole life…”

“I understand, Sherlock. Nobody understands better than I do. But I am telling you—and I will keep telling you—you don’t have to hide it. Not with me. As clichéd as it sounds, I am…made for it. And if you want to fight anything, we fight together, okay?”

They locked eyes for a long moment. Then Sherlock said,

“Would you consider spending the remainder of tonight at the Baker Street? The idea of you resting anywhere else is abhorrent.”

Something fluttered in John’s chest. “Yes. I don’t want to go back to Harry’s, but, uh, I will take the room _upstairs_. It’s been a long couple of days, and I’d really like to sleep at some point.”

“Of course, I wasn’t implying…”

“I feel it, too, Sherlock. The urge to be near you.”

Sherlock smiled and offered her arm in a chivalrous gesture.

“Shall we, then?”

John took it, and they walked side by side to Baker Street.

* * *

 

“You haven’t asked about what’s between my legs,” said Sherlock.

“Because until you decide to strip down in front of me for personal or professional reasons, it’s none of my business.”

“You aren’t curious?”

“No.”

“Extraordinary.”

“Common decency is not extraordinary, Sherlock. It’s common.”

“You were correct: the masquerade ball was my dream. That is…how I’m made.”

Oh, you beautiful creature. “It’s all fine. Fine, fine, wonderful, and fine. Now I’m going to sleep.” And not think about your cock. “Good night, Sherlock.” John rose from the armchair.

Sherlock hurried down the hall. She reappeared as John started up the stairs.

“Um, if you require, uh, sleepwear.” Sherlock’s looked down at the vest in her hand. “Never mind. I don’t know what I’m thinking…”

John grabbed the garment before Sherlock turned away. She held it up. It was large, so large as to fit John like a nightdress. And soft. It would do nicely.

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

* * *

 

In a few minutes, John padded back downstairs in the makeshift nightdress.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up from the microscope.

“Uh, are you going to sleep?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“No. I’ve got some experiments that require….”

“Um, do you have bedding? I just need a pillow and a blanket. Everything’s still stripped up here.”

Sherlock jumped to her feet, knocking the chair over. She rushed into the living room and then down the hall and then back to the living room, muttering.

“ _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ ”

“Hey, hey, stop it,” said John, touching her arm. “Is your bed made?”

“Yes,” snapped Sherlock. “What of it?!”

“How about I sleep in your bed and when you’re finished with your experiments, you can come have a kip? _Beside_ me.”

John watched the tension melt from Sherlock’s face.

“Oh, oh, um, okay. That’s…expedient.”

John smiled. Expedient is one word for it. “Okay. Now, for the last time, good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

* * *

 

John slept the deep sleep of the wholly exhausted, and only roused briefly when the weight on the bed shifted. Her mind registered ‘blue silk’ before sliding back into sleep.

* * *

 

Then she was again on the stone staircase of the Queen’s castle. She climbed to the top and spied a long booted-leg dangling.

“Sherlock?”

The reply was a hum.

John found her sitting in the corner of an arched window, in full snowy owl regalia. She was rolling a trio of crystal balls in one hand. Then, with a puff of breath, one of the balls transformed into a bubble and floated out the window, over the Goblin City and towards the edge of the labyrinth.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

“For?”

Sherlock looked at her with such sorrowful eyes, John’s heart ached.

“For you to wake up and realize your mistake. And leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock.” John slowly eased herself into the opposite corner of the window. “Think the only way you can keep me is enslaved, here?”

“I’m selfish, John. Selfish and short-sighted and impulsive and arrogant and petty. I’m a horrid person and an even more horrid Alpha, one who can’t even remember to provide for a modicum of comfort…”

“You’re a strong Alpha, Sherlock. I’m sleeping in your clothes. You want me to smell like you, even when your rational mind knows I’m not able to, even when there’s nothing _to_ smell, for either party.” John swallowed. “I think we’re bond-mates. I think we’ve both been on chemical suppressants for so long that the only way our instincts could surface is in our subconscious minds. And I think that our bond is so strong that we found each other, somehow, without ever meeting in person. And I think Mike was…”

“Match-making, yes, I agree. What with the Father Christmas joviality she’s always projecting, sometimes I forget how astute she is.” Sherlock sighed and stared out the window. “I’ve been alone for so long, John. Alone is what protected me.”

“I just shot a man for you, Sherlock. If that doesn’t cause you to rethink your philosophy, then you are as stupid as you tell yourself. And you aren’t alone. You have a cast,” she gestured to the world below them, “of characters around you. A couple are a bit annoying, but they all respect you and quite a few care for you deeply. Maybe I’m here to remind you of that as well.”

She pressed the palm of her hand to Sherlock’s white gloved one. Then she intertwined their fingers.

“I think you’re my Alpha, if you want me as your Omega, but even if you don’t, I’m still your friend.”

“Oh, God, yes!” choked Sherlock, pulling John into her arms. “Yes, yes, yes. All of it,” she mumbled into John’s hair.

* * *

 

They sat spooned in the window for some time. Sherlock spun crystal balls into bubbles, and John watched them float away. Finally, Sherlock said,

“I’m going to wake up, John, but please sleep as long as you’d like.”

“Okay. How do you wake up from this?”

Sherlock smirked. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Then hang on.”

John turned and wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock cocooned her in a tight embrace.

“Here we go.” Sherlock rolled them off the window ledge.

And they were falling. Together.

* * *

 

John glanced at the clock. It was already afternoon. The bed was empty, save for a few wrinkles in the sheets on the far side. She changed back into her clothes and made her way down the hall.

She was greeted by Sherlock, tugging on the bottom of her very smart suit jacket. She stood in the middle of a jumble of boxes.

“Afternoon,” said Sherlock. “I have good news and bad news.”

“Uh, afternoon.” John blinked and realized the boxes were not the same ones as yesterday. These were…hers, well, hers and Harry’s. “Bad news first.”

“I took the liberty of claiming your belongings and regret to inform you that your sister’s eviction from her current domicile due to rent delinquency coincides with her court-appointed matriculation into a substance abuse treatment program.”

“Bad, but unfortunately, not surprising. Guess I’ll be steward of the Watson family heirlooms while she’s drying out. Again. What’s the good news?”

“Mrs. Hudson has seen fit to stock our refrigerator and cupboard, so if you’re hungry and would like a _fry-up_ ,” Sherlock pronounced the word as if it were foreign, “you’re free to prepare one. Yourself, of course, I don’t cook. Or eat. Much.” She gave a nervous smile.

“Yeah, I’m going to see if I can change that last part. A bit.” John winked and delighted in the faint blush it produced on Sherlock’s cheeks. Then she turned her head and sucked in a sharp breath.

There on the mantelpiece, in the very centre, surrounded by stabbed correspondence and crystal ball and imperial owl and skull, stood a soldier-princess and a goblin queen.

“Ready, John?”

John grinned.

“Ready when you are.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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